


Come Loose Your Dogs Upon Me

by quirkysubject



Series: For The Day I Take Your Hand [4]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Aftercare, Angry Sex, Angst, Consent Issues, Dirty Talk, Dom Drop, Dom/sub, Domestic Disputes, Established Relationship, Hopeful Ending, Humiliation, Jealousy, M/M, Masochism, Missing Scene, Possessive Sex, Punishment, Rough Sex, Shame, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:22:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28045377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quirkysubject/pseuds/quirkysubject
Summary: May 1985. Freddie needs something that Roger doesn't want to give. Or so he says.
Relationships: Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor
Series: For The Day I Take Your Hand [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1707946
Comments: 20
Kudos: 41





	Come Loose Your Dogs Upon Me

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies: This is *not* the "For the Day I Take Your Hand"-follow up I promised you (which is in the works!), but something I've been trying to write for a long time. There are lots of issues (emotional, sexual, psychological) in this, and it's the opposite of nice and fluffy. So, be warned, all ye who enter here ❤️
> 
> Can be read as a stand-alone story. 
> 
> Kudos and thanks to @nastally for a wonderful beta read! 💖🙏 Title from "The Ship Song" by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

#### 25 May 1985

“Stop it.”

Freddie does no such thing. His hand continues its slow progress towards Roger’s crotch, while a mischievous smile is tugging at the corners of his mouth. Until it is slapped away with more force than he expects. 

“I’m not doing this in the back of a car,” Roger hisses without sparing a look for him.

This is new. Roger enjoys doing things in the backs of cars. Or the front. Or - and that time stands out vividly in Freddie’s mind - on the hood. “Doing what,” Freddie asks innocently, fingers tiptoeing their way back towards Roger’s leg. 

Roger’s hand closes like a vice around Freddie’s wrist. Without any other acknowledgement, his hand is placed on the seat between them and firmly pressed into the upholstery. Freddie revels in the strain on his wrist, bordering on painful, and the way Roger effortlessly takes control. A promise of things to come, hopefully. 

It seems like his little game of ignoring Roger the whole night in favour of flirting with what's-his-name definitely worked. Looks like he got Roger all riled up. 

After a couple of seconds, Roger takes his hand away, and Freddie immediately misses the contact. Roger isn’t looking at him, but straight ahead, annoyance radiating off him. He tries to act as if he doesn’t want Freddie’s attention - and he’s doing a better job of it than usual - but the growing bulge in his trousers tells Freddie exactly what he’s thinking about. 

And Freddie doesn’t want his attention to stray even for a second. He shifts to lean his back against the upholstered door of the Mercedes and runs his foot up Roger’s calf. 

Roger doesn’t react for a second or two, but then he whirls around, grips both of Freddie's upper arms and squashes them against the door, his face so close that Freddie can see the muscles working in his jaw. “I’m warning you,” he growls, and fuck, that voice goes straight to Freddie’s cock. 

More than just a bit riled up, Freddie realises excitedly. Roger is _seething_.

“Looking forward to it.” Freddie leans his head back a little, to better enact that haughty stare that always drives Roger bonkers during arguments.

For a moment, it seems that Roger’s promise not to do this - whatever ‘this’ is - in the car is wavering. Freddie’s pulse is thrumming under his skin as he imagines being pulled face-first into Roger’s crotch, or being made to bend over the fold-down seat. But then Roger presses his lips together in a tight, derisive smirk and sits back in his seat. 

Freddie’s jeans have become uncomfortably tight during this little interlude, and he adjusts himself in a way that is all but inconspicuous, hoping to draw attention to his need.

But Roger keeps his eyes trained on the car window, staring rigidly at the night streets passing by outside. His head is slightly turned so that Freddie gets to see the curve of his nose in sharp profile. Oh, how tempted Freddie is to poke him a bit more. Perhaps, if he really pushes his luck, he might get Roger to accept a blowjob while he pretends to be annoyed and calls him a bloody nuisance. That’s always a fun game. 

But as he watches the glow from the street lights flicker across Roger’s features, something gives him pause. There’s an edge to Roger tonight, something hard and jagged and _cold_ that Freddie has rarely seen before. The tense muscles in his jaw, his disdainful silence, they send a shiver of anticipation through him. Anticipation of what _exactly_ , he can’t tell. He can hope though. 

So he sits still and distracts himself from his growing arousal by imagining all the different scenarios, one wilder than the next. There are things he’s been hinting at for months, _years_ now, that Roger hasn’t been willing to give him. They play with these things, the rougher, darker aspects of sex, but Roger always pulls back first, long before Freddie has reached his limit. Hell, before he even knows what the limit might be. 

Perhaps tonight will be different. 

By the time they reach Roger’s house (and isn’t the fact that Roger gave his address rather than Freddie’s a clue in and of itself?), Freddie can barely sit still. He climbs out of the car and jogs after Roger, who is marching broodingly towards the entrance. A hint of uncertainty taints Freddie’s excited mood. What if he’s been misreading this? What if Roger is _genuinely_ angry with him, angry in a way that makes him want nothing to do with him? 

Roger stops at the door, waiting for Freddie to catch up without looking back at him. Then he holds open the door for him, letting him go through first. But Freddie doesn’t even get so far as to turn on the lights. As soon as they’re inside, Roger’s hands are on his hips, pushing the door shut with Freddie’s body. Freddie goes from pleasingly horny to painfully hard in all of a second.

“What the fuck was that?” Roger growls, all his pent-up rage spluttering to the surface. “ _Who_ the fuck was that?”

Freddie doesn’t get a chance to answer - not that he would have known what to say - because immediately Roger’s mouth comes down bruisingly hard against his, lips getting trapped between sharp teeth.

Freddie groans and lets his head fall back against the door with a thud. He barely manages to tamp down a jitter of excitement. Fucking _finally_. 

For weeks, he’s been goading him, having Phoebe lie for him when Roger called late at night, ditching him at parties. But all he got was a fight that never amounted to sex, sex that never amounted to a proper fight. It made Freddie pound his fists against the locked door of the guest bedroom, yell after Roger when he ran out of the house and into his precious car to “get some air”. Because when Roger gets angry he’s never shy of letting Freddie now. But he always insists on cooling off before anything happens.

Until now. 

Freddie tries to grind his rock-hard erection against Roger, looking for some sort of friction, but Roger’s hands keep his hips locked in his place. He whines in frustration, which makes Roger bite his lip just a bit too hard, sending a bolt of desire straight to Freddie’s cock. If kissing can sometimes resemble a battle, this is full out war, and Freddie would surrender unconditionally if, _if_ he didn’t have the feeling that it’ll be more exciting this way. That if he gives back just enough to keep Roger on the fine edge of anger, he’ll get so much more than he bargained for. 

Desperate for touch, Freddie hooks his foot around Roger’s hip, hitching it as high as he can go. He reaches for the buttons of Roger’s shirt, but before he can even get there, his hands are trapped in one calloused hand and flattened against the door above his head, keeping him pinned there. “Oh, fuck yes,” he whispers hotly against Roger’s lips. 

He strains in Roger’s grip just to feel him pressing down harder and surges forwards with his hips, _finally_ getting that blessed friction on his cock. It’s so fucking good he could get off right there, just like this. Roger’s free hand wanders towards Freddie’s crotch and Freddie tilts his hips up to show him exactly where he wants it. 

But Roger doesn’t do him that favour. Instead, he slips it into the front pocket of Freddie’s jeans. And pulls out the sachet of lube he had stowed away there. Just in case.

Oh, fuck. Freddie feels his cheeks flush hotly. “Whoopsie,” he breathes with as much cheek as he’s got in him. 

Roger pulls back and holds it up in between them. “Had plans?” he asks, eyebrows arched in condescending mock curiosity. When Freddie doesn’t answer, he tosses the lube onto a sideboard and grabs Freddie’s chin, thumb and forefinger digging in hard against the bone of his jaw. “Were you going to let him fuck you in some backroom like a cheap slut? Bend over for the next best hard cock to fill you up?” Roger’s hoarse voice makes the degrading words drip like dark treacle into Freddie’s ear.

Freddie needs a few breaths until he can speak again. “Watch who you’re calling cheap.” 

A hand slams into the door next to his face, making him jump and sending a bolt of sheer, naked want radiating through his body. It’s exhilarating and a bit frightening, seeing Roger let go like this. Freddie turns his head, licks Roger’s thumb, then bites it, desperate for any contact he can get. 

Roger pushes his thumb against Freddie’s lips, bruising them against his teeth. “You think I'm gonna let you get away with that?”

Freddie puts on his best cocky grin. “Jealous?”

“He had his hands all over you, I saw it,” Roger fumes. He grips the collar of Freddie’s shirt with both hands, tearing at it until the threads rip. The sound alone makes Freddie’s knees tremble. 

Things could go very fast now (oh please let them go fast!), so Freddie unobtrusively tries to toe off his shoes. Once they get to the part where the trousers come off, he doesn’t want to bother with shoes. And the trousers will come off. They’ll have to, and soon, or there will be permanent damage. Then he reaches for Roger’s fly. 

Roger slaps his hand away with a resounding whack that makes his skin sting. “You wanted to fuck him then?” Sharp teeth rasp over his cheek. “You would have let him fuck you?” 

Freddie stops himself just in time from asking “Who?”, because to be honest, he has already forgotten the guy’s name, his face, his entire insignificant existence. All burned away in the white-hot flame of Roger’s wrath. Still, he bares his teeth in a grin, just to take it up another notch. “Maybe.”

Roger draws back, his face such a grimace of rage that for a moment, Freddie thinks he is actually going to sock him. Those blue eyes should be cool, they can’t blaze red-hot like that, can they? But then he grabs Freddie’s hair instead, yanking at it so much harder than he usually does, uncaring of Freddie’s sensitive roots. A noise tears itself from Freddie’s throat, shockingly high and loud in the empty hallway. (God, they still haven’t made it out of the hallway.) Teeth sink into his neck just under his jaw where his pulse is racing, so hard that Freddie can feel it bruising. The mark will be visible. Everyone will know that someone staked his claim tonight. 

“You _are_ jealous,” Freddie pants, scrambling for the last remains of his composure. 

“Shut up!” Roger presses him back more firmly with his free hand. “I’m not joking.” 

No, Roger doesn’t look like he’s joking. He looks like he’s that close to baring his teeth. Freddie desperately wants to get him there. It won’t take much. Just a bit more and he’ll snap. But it’s a delicate balance, stoking those flames. One step too far and Roger will leave him hanging out here to dry, locking himself in the second bedroom “until you stop being such a fucking arsehole, Freddie.”

“He had his hand down the back of your trousers when I came in,” Roger growls. “Did you let him finger you? Hm? Right there on that bloody sofa with all those people around?”

Freddie doesn’t answer. He didn’t, of course, the guy didn’t get further than his back pocket. But Roger doesn’t need to know that. Not when he is so nice and fired up. 

“Answer me!” Freddie is slammed into the door again, Roger’s forearm high across his chest this time. _Almost_ at his throat. It’s hard to focus, hard to breathe, as if the mere suggestion was enough to choke him. “Would you have liked that?” he whispers finally.

Instead of being pushed to his knees for his insolence, Roger just stares at him, a murderous gleam in his eyes.

Freddie is so hard it hurts. He wishes he could rub himself against Roger some more, but those eyes keep him fixed in place. “Had a lovely big cock too,” he goes on, almost delirious with lust. “I could see it through his jeans. He’d have fucked me so good if- ah.”

The hand in his hair tightens, yanking his head back so hard that tears gather in the corners of his eyes. The pressure across his chest eases as Roger lifts his arm away and Freddie squeezes his eyes shut as he awaits the blissful sting of a slap. 

But suddenly the hand in his hair is gone. Roger steps back, fingers trembling, the muscles in his jaw tensing and relaxing in turn. His chest is heaving with the effort to control himself.

_To control himself._

No. No, no, no! He’s not supposed to control himself. Freddie wants to rail at him in frustration. Just when everything was going so well!

Roger takes the lube sachet off the table and presses it into Freddie’s chest. “I need the bathroom. Get onto the bed, clothes off, prep yourself.”

Freddie lets himself sink back against the door as he watches Roger disappear down the hallway. 

They were almost there. Almost a slap, almost a hand locked around his throat. And now Roger’s run off to calm himself down. And Freddie’s going to get a hard fuck, maybe with a spank on his bum thrown in, maybe - if he’s lucky - some teeth digging into his shoulder. Which is good, it’s _fine_ , but he doesn't want fucking fine. 

That might be enough when they come off-stage, sweaty and high, or after a protracted argument in the studio. But not now. Now, all the pent-up energy is eating him up like acid gnawing on his bones. 

He needs more than this. 

And Rogers promised. He _promised_ him that night in Munich that he’d give him that. But then he never does. He swallows his anger down, keeps it away from Freddie even when he’s all but begging him not to. “What do you want from me?” he asks even as Freddie is _showing_ him with every one of his actions. “Use your fucking words”, he says, even as Freddie’s body paints him a bloody picture. 

And then he wonders why Freddie seeks it elsewhere. There are people who don’t require a handwritten invitation. 

Freddie clenches his jaw, torn between doing as Roger asks while resenting him for it, or heading back out, telling Terry to drive him to the next leather bar and resenting himself for it. 

In the end, he does neither of these things. 

In the end, when Roger returns, Freddie is still standing in the hallway, just as he left him, the sachet of lube back on the sideboard, unopened. Freddie draws back his head, his shoulders, waiting for Roger to say something. 

Roger’s eyes wander between him and the lube. “You didn’t do as I told you,” he states in that hateful, carefully controlled, neutral voice that isn’t even a proper reproach. 

“No.” Freddie tries to look just as cool and unaffected as Roger sounds. Come on. Come _on_.

It works, to a degree at least. Roger’s lips press into a thin line, his fists balling up by his sides until he looks like he’s about to blow. But then, he backs down, _yet again_ , taking a step back and shaking his head. He raises his arms at his sides and lets them fall down limply in a gesture of defeat. “Alright then. Alright.” And then he turns on his heel to leave. 

“Where are you going?” Freddie hates the way his voice comes out, all whiny and small. 

“I’m going to bed.” Roger doesn’t even look back as he walks down the hallway, weariness and frustration etched into his every step. 

Freddie is fuming, because he knows exactly what’s going on. Roger is headed for a guest bedroom, and he’s going to toss himself off thinking about doing exactly those things Freddie wants him to do. What a fucking hypocrite he is. 

Before he knows he’s moving, Freddie has run after Roger, grabbed his arm and pulled him to a halt. 

“What the fuck?” Roger looks at him with a disbelieving expression. 

“Don’t you even care?” 

Roger looks at him as if he’s not making any sense, as if he’s just wasting his valuable time with nonsensical demands. It makes Freddie’s hands shake with the urge to hurt him, to whale away at him until bones crack, until he _understands_ , until he stops acting like he’s so above it all, like he’s not full of shit. 

“Let me-” Roger tries to jerk his arm free but Freddie’s holding on with both of his now. 

“No,” he grits out. “Don’t you dare turn your back on me!” 

“I do whatever the fuck I like.” He shoves Freddie backwards, so hard that he has to let go in order not to stumble. 

Freddie scoffs. “As if you ever do anything else.” 

“As if _I_ ever do anything else?” Roger takes a step forward, cocking his head to the side. “I… This is for you, Freddie. I drive myself mental, trying to work out what you want, but I just get it wrong every time. Whatever I do, it’s never enough for you.”

“Stop pretending this is all me,” he roars, throwing his hands up in frustration. “As if you don’t get off on it. As if you’re so much _better_ than me.”

Roger is so close now that Freddie can see his pulse hammering at the base of his throat. “What the fuck do you want, Freddie,” he hisses. “Tell me, because whatever it is, I’m not getting it.”

“I want you to stop being such a fucking coward! I want to you to once, just _once_ , show me that you actually give a fuck about-” Us. Me. _This_ , Freddie wants to say, but he doesn’t get the chance. 

Two hands grip his shoulders, unceremoniously turning him around and pushing him face-first into the wall. Roger is plastered against his back, heavy and unyielding. Freddie strains back against him out of fury and out of principle, but one strong hand presses into the back of his head, holding him right there. 

“This?” Roger’s breath is hot against his neck, his teeth grazing his skin. “You want this?”

Before Freddie can answer, Roger’s free hand comes around and makes short work of the buttons of his fly. His cock stays trapped in a trouser leg, growing harder by the second. There’s his answer, if Roger cared to look. But Roger doesn’t even reach for it, instead he takes a hold of the waistband at the back and pulls his trousers down with a yank. 

Freddie gasps, first at the cold air, and then when the rough denim of Roger’s jeans scrapes against the sensitive skin of his bottom. “Fuck off,” he hisses, revelling in the predictable pain of his cock being squashed against the wall when Roger surges forward in response. He can barely move, pinned in place by Roger’s body, and Freddie wants to crow in triumph. This. Finally, _this!_

Strong fingers dig bruisingly hard into his hip. “Then this is what you’re going to get.” The energy radiating off the man behind him, the violence he’s bringing to the table although he usually takes such good care to keep himself out of situations like this, has Freddie squirming. 

His cock is rapidly filling up, painfully trapped in his jeans. It would take only a small adjustment to free it. But if Roger notices, it would probably make him even angrier. 

Freddie inches his hand down slowly along the smooth surface of the wall. 

A fist slams down, so close to his hand he jerks it back up, and so hard that he can feel the shock waves reverberating through his body. Roger shifts his stance and grabs Freddie’s arse, his nails sinking in deeply, so unforgiving it forces a surprised, obscenely loud groan out of Freddie. It’s a sharp, deep pain, not the easy sting of a flat palm. 

“Your hands stay exactly where they are.” Freddie isn’t sure where Roger is pulling that voice from, harsh and gravelly and full of cold fury that is so different from his usual hot and quick anger. “Do you understand?”

When Freddie doesn’t answer, the fingernails dig deeper, so deep Freddie can feel the capillaries under his skin burst. He presses his face into the hard surface of the wall as wetness gathers at the corners of his eyes, just to have some other sensation to focus on. “Yes”, he hisses in defeat. Roger lets go, and the pain momentarily worsens as the pressure eases and numbed nerve endings come back to life. “Fuck.” A breathless, giddy laugh spills out of Freddie, and then he practically melts into the wall, his chest glued to it, his arse sticking out, rubbing against Roger’s front. He's sinking, swallowed up by the dark rhythms he finds underlying all this. 

“Stay.” The weight against his back disappears as Roger takes a step away, but his voice is enough to keep Freddie in place. There’s the crackle of the lube sachet being torn open. Freddie mouths the side of his arm because it’s the only place he can reach and the tension is unbearable. 

And there is no release from it. No hand spreading his cheeks apart, no probing finger against his entrance. The calm that comes over him whenever Roger takes control like this gives way to uneasiness. God, please don’t let him have second thoughts about it. Not now. Don’t let him dangle the exact rough fuck Freddie’s been gagging for in front of him, only to take it away at the last second. 

Obviously, some encouragement is needed. 

He puts his best cocky grin on his face, the one that will grate on Roger’s keyed-up nerves like a rasp, and turns his head. “What are you wai…”

The grin freezes on his face. Because Roger is drizzling lube on his cock, which is jutting out dark and hard from his body. When he looks up, his expression is so grim that it sends a chill down Freddie’s spine. “You’ve had your chance for prep, haven’t you.”

Heart hammering in his chest, Freddie lets his head fall forward, forehead pressed into the wall. Rogers planning to… Oh God, whatever Freddie expected, it’s not this. This is something else entirely. 

A hand grips his hip none too gently. Freddie flattens his hands against the door and pushes himself off. “No, wait”, he hears himself saying, cursing himself for it. 

“I don’t think so.” A second hand comes up to the back of his neck, shoving him forward again, so forcefully his cheekbone is smarting with the pressure. “You owe me, Freddie. Don’t you think?”

‘Paisley’, it echoes through his head. He mocked it when Roger first brought it up, but he had stubbornly insisted on it until Freddie settled on the first word that crossed his mind that day. But now it’s at the tip of his tongue. He banishes it back down where it came from. For years, he’s been trying to get here. Now that he’s here, he’s not sure he wants it. But if he slams on the breaks now, he might not get a second chance. And he’s not going to let this opportunity go to waste. 

When Freddie doesn’t reply, neither to object nor to agree, the hand on his neck moves, wanders over to his cheek until two fingers are pressed messily into his mouth. Freddie sucks them in immediately and Roger huffs out a breath. “Bet you wish it was my cock.” 

Fuck yes, he does. 

Roger slides them in deeper, as far as they will go. Freddie gags and pulls his head back, neck muscles straining. But with Roger pressing against him from behind he can’t get away. It only puts his head closer to Roger, making it easier for him to push the fingers in even deeper. “But you don’t deserve that.”

Maybe that’s what he’s going for. Making Freddie beg for it. Either for his fingers in his arse, using his own drool to get him ready, or his cock down his throat. Maybe if he asks really nicely he’ll get both. 

The thought distracts him so much that he jumps when the blunt hardness of Roger’s cock is pressed against his crack. Freddie instinctively pulls his legs together, but Roger roughly shoves them apart with his knees.

Oh god oh fuck he’s going to do it, he’s _actually_ going to do it. Even now, Freddie realises, he’d assumed it was all just part of the game, all talk. Roger likes to talk. He thought he might get a fast-bordering-on-sloppy prep, just enough so he doesn’t get hurt, with a quick and hard fuck to follow. 

Denim scrapes against his naked thighs. God, Roger isn’t even going to take his clothes off. Freddie is about to get fucked against the bloody wall without either of them getting out of their trousers. 

Every hair is standing on end, every nerve ending is on fire as he waits for what happens next. 

And waits. 

Because Roger hesitates. Like he’s waiting, too. Like he’s _asking_. 

If Freddie struggled now, _really_ struggled, he’d let go. Probably. The fact that Freddie cannot tell for sure excites him more than he can possibly admit. 

He lets his head hang down between his shoulders so Roger’s fingers slide out of his mouth, pressing wetly into his cheek. Still waiting. He has no idea if he’s going to be more disappointed or relieved if Roger stopped now. Relieved, certainly. He’s had a couple of drinks, but he’s not high and there are no poppers to take the edge off. This is going to hurt like a bitch and while Freddie enjoys a bit of pain to heighten the pleasure, certainly enjoys the _idea_ of it, he can’t actually take that much.

_Paisley_

Then why doesn’t he say it?

The fingers disappear from his cheek.

Freddie does nothing. It’s out of his hands, all of it, as it should be. In the quiet of the house, and with the lack of touch, every sense is heightened. The texture of the wall paper under his cheek. The pounding of his heart in his chest. The looming presence of Roger behind him. 

He’s got so used to the stillness, this moment of time suspended, that it comes as a shock when fingers spread his arse cheeks apart and cold lube is drizzled into his crack. Just another visceral reminder that this will be different. Roger always warms it up first, without giving it much thought. It’s just something he does. But not tonight. _You don’t deserve this._

There’s the briefest touch of a thumb pad spreading the lube around. Freddie thinks with bleak relief that Roger’s going to push it inside, give him that at least, but it’s gone after a second.

And then it’s replaced by something blunter and bigger.

Paisley. _Paisley_.

“Say you want it.”

It could be one last safeguard, an out at the last minute. But it’s offered as an order, just an added humiliation, that he’s being made to ask for it, and Freddie chooses to take it that way. “Get on with it,” he whispers. He doesn’t want to whisper, but that’s how it comes out. 

Roger moves, increasing the pressure, and Freddie’s hips instinctively surge forward to get away. He hisses when the hard surface of the wall digs painfully into his erection. His own arousal, almost forgotten in the tension, floods into him, and he groans, shame burning hotly in his cheeks.

There’s a hand at the back of his neck again, shoving his face into the wall, while the other goes to his hip, pulling him back. “Stay still.” Roger’s voice is harsh and a bit slurred. It’s enough to make Freddie slide his feet apart just a tiny bit more. “Fucking hold still or I can’t…” Roger pushes against him a little harder and Freddie’s moan is muffled by his forearm as the head of his cock breaches the first ring of muscle. Roger pauses, breathing hard, before pushing in a bit more. 

It hurts. It feels gigantic. It’s more than he can take. It’s all he wants. “Stop,” he whispers, as much as he tries not to. He needs a second, just a second to cope.

Roger slides in a bit deeper. “No.”

Every single muscle inside him is burning with tension. His fingers scrabble over the wall, searching for something to hold onto. He wants to breathe deep to relax and accommodate the stretch, but his body doesn’t allow him more than short, strangled gasps. 

“Do you still think this is a game,” Roger hisses. “That _I’m_ a game?”

No, this doesn’t feel like a game. It feels like punishment.

Can it be punishment if you still want it?

Freddie shakes his head and Roger slides in another inch. It’s not the fast, hard slam that Freddie imagined, but a tortuously slow increase in pressure that feels like it will never end. Of course. Roger wants to make him feel it. 

Freddie’s breathing comes in ragged gasps. His legs are trembling with the effort to keep him upright. Again, he tries to relax, but then, nothing about this is relaxing. It’s the most exciting thing that Roger has ever done to him, and it’s winding him up so much he can’t stand it, can't contain it all.

“Tell me you want more. Tell me you want all of it.” 

He shakes his head again, unable to find the control to answer properly. 

Roger’s hand tightens warningly on his hip.

“I want,” he gasps as Roger pushes in another tiny bit. “God, I want.” His mouth is gaping open, grasping for words that won’t come.

“Say it. Say it or I’ll leave you like this.” Leave him with the memory of this burning stretch that swallows up all other sensations. Leave him empty and without the pleasure that makes it all bearable. 

“Please,” he sobs, the word dissolving into an incoherent groan when Roger moves again. He’s disgusted at the gratitude suddenly filling him, that it should take so little to get him to beg, and not for show, but meaning it. 

“Let me, ah fuck, let me tell you what I want,” Roger whispers as he completes the long, slow push inside Freddie’s body. “I want you to remember this the next time you decide to drag me to a party only to ditch me for some party slut.” He’s filling Freddie up to the hilt, grinding into him with tiny rocking motions deep inside him. “I want you to remember this the next time you decide to let someone else put their hands on you.” 

Roger’s hand leaves his neck and sneaks around to twist Freddie’s nipple. He gasps and spasms involuntary, clenching down painfully around Roger’s cock. All the muscles that had just started to soften draw back together tightly. 

“Do you understand?” 

“Yes,” Freddie breathes with the last air in his lungs. 

Roger lets go of his nipple just as he pulls out a bit, a small movement that feels immeasurable, and it’s then that first spark of pleasure pings off the pain. Fingers run over his cheek, gently this time, following the tracks of the tears that must have spilled. 

“Yes,” Roger repeats as he gives a small experimental thrust, ignoring Freddie’s yelp, “Yes, I suppose you do.”

It’s simple after that. There are no questions, no wondering what’s expected of him. No choices. He takes what Roger decides to dish out. His hands hold Freddie’s hips in place as he fucks into him, taking his pleasure. There are no smacks to his arse thrown in, no cruel flicks of fingernails against his nipples, no sharp teeth sinking into the muscle of Freddie’s shoulders. It’s just fucking, brutal and raw and stripped to the bone.

Once his body has got over the first shock of intrusion, accepted the pace of proceedings, he feels himself sink into it. Every time the tip of Roger’s cock brushes against his prostate, a sweet sting ripples through him. All the places where he’s aching flow together in this spark, heightening it, until his skin is wet with sweat and he is moaning with the need for more. He shakes at the heat and pressure, the heady buzz that comes with being taken and held down and fucked. 

Roger drops a hand to his cock that is still trapped and throbbing in his partly undone trousers. He doesn’t comment on it, but then, he doesn’t have to, because the twin sensations of shame and lust - or are they just two expressions of the same thing, so welded together by his twisted mind that it’s meaningless to tell them apart? - are raging through Freddie all the same. Gagging for it, aren’t you? Getting off on being held down and fucked? Need it rough, yeah? 

But there’s yet another side to it, one that makes the petty, ugly part inside him that is still spitting mad at Roger gloat. It’s not just him. They’re in this together, Roger is getting off on it too - the evidence is in the rock hard cock splitting Freddie apart, the strained puffs of breath against Freddie’s neck. He can’t deny it. However much he’s telling Freddie he’s not like this, however much he’ll try to pin it all on him afterwards, Freddie will know. And Roger will know too, and he is going to be the one who resents himself for it. 

So even if it’s not a game, he’s still winning. 

Flying high on his own triumph and the sensations flooding through him, he presses his sweaty palms to the door and pushes back, giving Roger’s next thrust that extra bit of force. 

It startles a grunt out of Roger, and then he slams into him even harder than before. “Still haven’t got enough,” he growls, and Freddie shakes at his voice and his merciless pace. Freddie’s cock is pulled free, finally, and Roger pumps him with tight strokes in time with his thrusts. “You’re gonna come on my cock,” he orders and Freddie bites the inside of his cheek to hold back, to not give in so easily. But it’s useless, because Roger knows how to touch him far too well. “You’re gonna come while I’m fucking you right here in the hallway like a back-alley whore,” Roger takes a hold of the wrist Freddie is biting into to muffle his groans, and yanks it back, “and you’ll let me hear it.” 

It’s not long before his orgasm soars through him, riding high on everything that has been building up over the course of the night. He tries to bite back the noises that tear themselves from his throat, tries not to give Roger that last satisfaction, but it spills out of him, a mess of keening sobs as the wave crashes over him. He wants to let himself sink into the bone-deep warm pleasure that wants to overtake him, but Roger is not letting him. 

Roger keeps fucking him through it and beyond, hitting that spot that is making him cry out until it becomes overwhelming and Freddie begs him to stop. It only seems to spur Roger on, every helpless whine and whispered plea, as he pounds into Freddie’s oversensitive body. 

“Oh fuck,” Freddie pants, while his legs shake with the strain of holding him up. “I can’t. I...” 

“You can take it,” Roger assures him, and there’s no arguing against the certainty in his voice. There is nothing left for Freddie to do but take it as gospel and surrender a second time. He is light-headed and trembling all over and yet suddenly it’s so easy to be here. Roger says he can, so he does. _You owe me,_ it echoes through Freddie’s head, and then the tears are falling again, not from the pain this time, he’s far beyond that, but because he realises that he does. That he always did. 

He has no idea how much time has passed until Roger’s fingers clench and his rhythm falters and he stills with a final curse against Freddie’s back. The last ounce of strength that kept him standing leaves him and Freddie starts sliding down the wall, knees buckling under their combined weight. 

Immediately, Roger’s arms come up around him, gentling his fall, until they’re both kneeling on the floor. Roger pulls out of him, shushing his protests at being left cold and empty. Freddie tries to turn around, to fling himself into Roger’s arms, but Roger keeps him there with a hand pressed to his back, albeit gently this time. 

“Just a second,” he mumbles. “Just got to check on you.” His fingers are cool and light, but Freddie still hisses when he prods at him. “Alright. Alright, come here.” 

Freddie gets a brief look at his face as he turns around, and although his mind is foggy with release and emotion, Roger’s shocked expression cuts through to the bone. The last feelings of triumph and elation ebb away. And suddenly, he doesn’t want to win any more. 

Roger’s arms come around him, tentatively, shakily, as Freddie crawls into his lap. Freddie nuzzles his face into Roger’s neck and clings to him, not sure which of them he’s trying to console. “Sorry,” he whispers, and he can feel Roger flinch at that. 

“Jesus, Freddie, don’t.” 

Freddie shifts even closer to him, feeling more helpless than he did when Roger held him down and stripped him. Trembling hands stroke over his back, far from their usual reassuring presence. Everything is supposed to be better now, the tension and the anxiety running through him burnt away under the heat of Roger’s rough treatment. 

Roger rubs a hand over his face and Freddie can hear the rasp of his slight stubble. He hasn’t shaved today. Freddie meant to tease him about that, but then he forgot. 

“What, er.” Roger clears his throat and his voice comes out a bit stronger after. “What do you need?” 

You. Your love. Your forgiveness. Your blood-sworn oath that you’ll never leave me. All the things he can’t ask for. “Take me to bed.” 

Roger wordlessly helps him get up and out of his soiled trousers which are still tangled around his thighs. Then he steers him towards the bedroom, taking most of his weight with an arm slung around his waist. Freddie wishes he’d pick him up and carry him, but he doesn’t know how to ask for that either. 

Freddie grimaces when he sits down on the bed, and quickly rolls onto his side. God, he’s going to feel that for a while. 

“I’ll be back in a second,” Roger says, his voice lilting upwards like he’s not sure if that is alright.

Freddie dreads the oppressive emptiness of the room, but he nods anyway. He lies there quietly as he listens to Roger putter around in the bathroom, to the water running and being turned off. Listens to Roger’s shaky inhale and exhale too. It twists something deep inside him. 

Then the bed dips as Roger sits down next to him. “Can I take that off,” he asks, tugging at Freddie’s shirt. Freddie nods again, then lifts his arms to help Roger pull it over his head. A warm flannel washes away the mess on his stomach, his thighs, his arse, and then a cold one is pressed to his forehead and the back of his neck. He is rolled onto his front and Roger dabs at him with that ointment he originally got for his hands, but that feels so soothing on his scrapes and bruises. Roger’s hands are gentle now as he retraces the marks he left all over Freddie’s body. 

Usually, Freddie treasures every single one of them. He loves this part, the other side of this kind of love-making, unhurried and tender and just as much a promise. But this time, he can’t really let himself fall into it. Guilt - the dull, unattractive twin sister of shame - nagging away at him. 

He always has to push too far, doesn’t he? Roger gives him so much, far more than he ever dared to imagine, but he has to keep harassing him for the one thing he doesn’t want to give. 

But he promised, that side of him that can never let anything rest, that never settles for second best, pipes up. That night in Munich he said yes, to everything, ‘not just the pretty bits, the ones he’s comfortable with’. He _deserves_ this. 

Then why does he feel so horrid?

Once his body is tended to, and after Roger has asked with some trepidation if he’s hurt anywhere else, and Freddie has shaken his head a third time, Roger lies down next to him and draws up the duvet over them. He slings an arm loosely around Freddie’s waist, but it feels as if he is keeping his distance even while he’s touching him. As if he’s fulfilling some dreaded duty. 

Freddie hates it. Hates that he is responsible for it even more. And that Roger can’t ever make this easy, when it’s been so easy for… well. For some. “I won’t make you do this again,” he whispers into the dark. A promise. A resignation. 

A sharp inhale, followed by a pause. Then: “You didn’t make me do anything.” 

That at least sparks something in Freddie other than depletion. “Of course, I did,” he grumbles indignantly. Just because he doesn’t enjoy his victory doesn’t mean he hasn’t earned it. And a bloody hard piece of work it was, too. 

The arm is gone and Roger rolls onto his back. “No,” he says with a voice that sounds strangled. “This is on me. God, I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, stop playing the bloody martyr,” Freddie snaps. “Makes you sound like Brian.” Although Freddie would bet good money on Brian being the type to politely ask for a caning rather than the other way round. Which _might_ have something to do with his marital problems. 

“What, Brian? What are you…?” Roger sounds so adorably confused, Freddie feels a semblance of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Another sign of life and agitation flowing back into him. 

Freddie pokes his toes into Roger’s calf. “We all need to live a little.” 

“No. No Freddie, don’t turn this into… I _wanted_ to hurt you. And I _did_. I lost control and I…” Freddie can feel him struggling for composure. “I don’t know what else I might have done if-”

“Paisley.” 

“What?” 

“If I said it, what would you have done?” 

Roger is silent for a couple of seconds. “You shouldn’t have to say it.”

Now it’s Freddie who wants to give Roger a good walloping. “That’s what it’s for. Now answer the question. What would you have done?” 

When there is no answer, Freddie turns and props himself up on his elbow looking down at Roger. “Are you trying to tell me you wouldn’t have stopped?”

“Of course, I’d have stopped.” The answer shoots out of Roger faster than lightning. “But… That’s easy to say in hindsight, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps I should say it then. Just to prove it. Next time we-”

“No. No ‘next time’. We can’t… Jesus Christ, we can’t resolve fights through fucking.”

“Why not?”

Roger turns onto his side so he is facing Freddie. “Do you feel good right now? Like anything’s resolved?”

Freddie draws up the duvet more tightly around him. “I would, if you stopped making such a fuss.”

“How fucked up is this then? We have an argument, and the one who fucks the other into submission wins? You make me angry, and I hurt you like some...” He breaks off. 

...like some pathetic wife-beater in a tranquil town in Cornwall. 

Of course Freddie doesn’t want their actual arguments to end like this. The idea that they might start to resolve disputes in the studio like that is more than mildly horrifying (and not only because it would mean an album of Roger-songs. Or perhaps John, which wouldn’t be much better). It’s not supposed to be real, except sometimes it has to _feel_ real. To know that Roger can’t stand the thought of him with someone else. That he’ll show him, on a primitive, visceral level, that he’ll never let him go. That he’s just as messed up and obsessive as Freddie is. 

But there had been an actual argument somewhere in the middle this time. There had been something real and important at stake, and at some point Freddie wanted to hurt Roger just as much as he wanted to be hurt by him. Except once he got both, it felt dreadful, like there’d been a mix-up somewhere along the line, and they ended up on the wrong side of… something. 

Freddie has no idea how to explain all that. How to disentangle all those threads and make Roger (this stubborn man who always thinks he’s right about everything) understand. Especially now, when he should by all means be sleeping like the dead in Roger’s warm embrace, safe in the knowledge that everything is all right.

Roger opens his mouth, as if to start again, to explain once more how everything he did (and therefore everything Freddie wanted) is wrong and horrible, but then he must see something in Freddie’s face, and his expression softens. Instead of saying whatever he wanted to say, he raises one arm, lifting the blanket along with it in a wordless invitation. 

Freddie crawls into that space, into the welcoming, warm circle of Roger’s arms. Their knees bump and his left arm is awkwardly curled up in front of him, but it’s infinitely preferable to the cold distance from before. Roger’s fingers trail down his spine softly, slowly, like he’s touching something valuable and fragile. Freddie’s eyes sting again, and he nuzzles his cheek into Roger’s shoulder to keep it in. God, Roger would have a meltdown if he cried now, even if it wasn’t the bad kind. The thought makes him smile. 

“Better?” Roger asks, and Freddie nods. “Good.” He can feel Roger’s muscles relax somewhat, but there’s still some residual tension to him. “Can we talk about all this though? Not now, but one of those days.”

Freddie grimaces. He’d rather take a proper whipping. “Must we?”

“I want to give you what you want.”

He’s doing it again. Freddie’s stomach clenches with frustration. “Oh, thank you,” he replies in a biting, mocking tone. 

“What I want, too,” Roger mumbles, fingers spreading out between Freddie’s shoulder blades and rubbing up and down in wordless apology. “I’ve been meaning to for a while, but somehow it never…” His arms tighten minutely, holding Freddie even closer to him. “There has got to be a better way to do this. To make this work. For both of us.” And then he adds a quiet “Please” that Freddie can’t deny. 

“Oh fine,” he grumbles, burrowing a bit deeper into the embrace. With any luck, Roger will have all forgotten about it by the time morning rolls around. He usually avoids having discussions like this like the plague. Dominique liked to joke about it back in the day, that it was like ‘like dragging a cat into the bath.’ 

Perhaps he’s softening with age. 

Or perhaps this - them - is something too dear to him to jeopardise. It’s a maudlin thought, but ever since Paris, Freddie sometimes allows himself to believe that’s what it is. 

And when Roger presses a kiss to his forehead and makes sure the blankets are covering all of Freddie’s back, it feels a little bit more real than before.

**Author's Note:**

> For those who are reading this as part of FtD, this is what Freddie is referring to when he says that Roger promised him  
> [that night in Munich](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21575575/chapters/52243462): _“I want to go out. I want to fuck other guys while you watch and sometimes on my own. I want to tell you about it and see you tremble with rage. I want to have threesomes and foursomes and I want you to pimp me out and then slap me for being a slag. I want to slap you some time just to fuck up your perfect face. I want to be woken up with a bouquet of roses and I want to get you so angry you make me bleed. I want to be the bloody sun you revolve around and I want to make you burn. I want you to drag me to hell and back up." Freddie takes a long deep breath. "Can you do that? All of that, the whole parcel not just the pretty bits, the ones you're comfortable with?"_
> 
> Please feel free to discuss the story in the comments, I'm eager to hear your thoughts! Anon comments are closed due to some recent trouble. If you want to leave a comment and don't have an account, you can contact me via email or on tumblr (see my profile) for an invite ❤️


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